Lia Farrell - Mae December 02 - Two Dogs Lie Sleeping (14 page)

T
he Sheriff buzzed Dory and asked her to come to his office.

“You wanted me,
boss?” she stood in his doorway.

“I don’t think you’ve told me yet what happened when you and Miss
Bontemps went to dinner. From the look on your face, I’m guessing it went well.” She nodded, smiling. “What did you learn from your new friend?”

“Well, Sheriff, you know I believe you have to give if you wish to receive. I shared what Bethany Cooper told us.” She held up her hand as he opened his mouth to speak. “Before you start objecting, you need to know that it was no surprise to her. She didn’t tell me specifics, but Tom Ferris told her that Bethany was his stepsister, and he left something to both Miranda and Bethany in his will. And he left July something too.” Dory sat down in the chair across from his desk and stretched, arching her back. “We had a delicious dinner with several alcoholic beverages, by the way.”

“I wish we knew the specifics, but well done. What about Bontemps’ secretary? Does she type up the wills?”

“As a matter of fact, she doesn’t. Evangeline has a software program that basically does the whole thing automatically. She just fills in the information the client gives her. It’s all on her computer and password
-protected.”

“Excellent work, Investigator Clarkson,” Ben said, grinning. “I’d like to get a warrant to search Henry Covington’s house and car. Can you get started on that?”

Dory pursed her lips but nodded and returned to her desk.

Ben decided to make another effort to reach Nellie Franz, the housekeeper of the Sigma Chi house. His previous calls had been unsuccessful. This time, he got a hit.

“Hello,”
said a weary, high-pitched voice.

“Hello, is this Nellie Franz?”

“If you’re looking for money I’m not giving you any. I’m old, I’m sick, and I don’t share.”

Knowing he had only moments before she hung up the phone, Ben said, “
It’s Sheriff Ben Bradley calling from Rosedale, Tennessee. I would like to ask you some questions about the death of Ryan Gentry.”

“
That’s a long time back, young man,” she snapped. “The case was closed.”

“It links with a murder that was committed a few days ago involving the shooting death of Tom Ferris.”

“Oh dear.” Her voice softened.

“Ms. Franz, may I come and meet with you? I’ve talked with Detective Pascoe and he said you might know something that could help us.” Ben wanted to flatter the old woman. It often opened doors—and mouths.

“All right. My address is 1489 Pimpernel, in Muley. How long before you get here?”

“Thank you very much. I can get to your house in about an hour.”

Relieved, Ben typed the address into his GPS and thought about how to conduct the interview. It was unlikely to give him anything, but he wanted to cover every possibility.

Nellie Franz’ place was quite a ways out of town.
A small, rusty trailer stood surrounded by enormous old willows that leaned over the slowly collapsing dwelling. Green lichen spotted the tin roof. He knocked, and a tiny, stick-thin woman appeared in the metal doorway. Her white hair was fine and fell to her shoulders. A heavily spotted apron was tied around her middle, and on her feet were white, rolled-down socks and orthopedic shoes.

“I’ll see a badge, Lawman,” she said.

“Yes Ma’am.” Sheriff Bradley pulled out his sheriff’s star and identification.

“Let’s sit at the table,” she said
, pointing to a decrepit picnic table. It was green with mold, almost hidden under the willows. Ben hadn’t seen it in the shadows. Incongruously, it had a tiny vase of red wildflowers sitting on it. “I won’t have the law inside my house.”

“I understand,” Sheriff Bradley said. They walked to the table and Ben sat, feeling it creak beneath his weight. “I hope I don’t break your table, Ma’am.” When she looked at him
, her eyes were sharp. He added, “As I told you on the phone, we’re looking into the Ryan Gentry case again.”

“Didn’t kill himself, did he?”

“We don’t think so,” the sheriff said. “Do you have any idea what was going on that would make one of the other young men in the fraternity want to hurt Ryan?”

“The old
detective, Pascoe, asked me already. Told him what I’ll tell you. I was cleaning the third floor, mopping the hall. When I heard the hullabaloo outside, I walked downstairs to see what was happening. Once I saw the cops, I went back upstairs. My bucket had been moved.”

“Why did you think someone moved your bucket?” Sheriff Bradley asked.

“Thought they were cleaning up something.”

“Probably right
. The question is, why?”

“I’d finished mopping the floor in Ryan and Tommy’s room about an hour earlier. I waxed it too. It would have been shiny, slippery like. If there was a scuffle between Ryan and another guy and the floor got messed up, there would have been marks in the wax.”

“You’re one smart cookie,” the sheriff told her. Nellie Franz preened. “Do you have any idea why there would’ve been a fight?”

“I don’t know anything for sure, but a couple of times when I cleaned Henry and Greg’s room there was a lot of money lying around—too much money for kids. I always wondered about it.”

Ben nodded. “We think whoever killed Ryan probably killed Tom Ferris too. We’re hoping to make an arrest soon. If we arrest Henry Covington, would you be willing to testify to seeing large amounts of cash in his room?”

She looked at him for a space of time. “I’m Shawnee,” she said calmly. Ben waited, intrigued. “I’ll agree to nothing until I consult my elders.”

Elders?
The woman was ancient. It didn’t seem likely that there would be older Shawnee Indians still alive in Tennessee.

“After you’ve done that, if you’re willing to testify, call me
.” Sheriff Bradley handed her a card. Unsure if he had convinced her to testify, he said, “You know it’s not right that a person gets away with murder … twice.” He looked straight into her eyes. She stared back, unblinking; then she nodded.

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a little corncob pipe and a tobacco pouch. “I’m going to smoke a while,” she said and smiled at him for the first time. “Care to sit and smoke with me?”

“I’d enjoy that some other time.” He relaxed, smiling back at her. “I’m on my way to another interview right now. I need to do some convincing to get Ryan’s case reopened. Thank you very much, Ms. Franz. You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

Ben turned and walked back to his car
, wondering what the old lady lived on and hoping she had enough to eat. He entered the address for Mrs. Trula Godfrey, the housemother for Sigma Chi in the late nineties, into his GPS. The house was in Jefferson City. Once on the main road, he dialed PD Pascoe.

“Hello
.” The old man’s voice was quiet.

“Hello, Detective. It’s Ben Bradley. I just met with Nellie Franz, the housekeeper for Sigma Chi. I’m on my way now to see Trula Godfrey, the
housemother. After that I’d like to get ahold of several things from the Gentry evidence box. Where are the old evidence boxes kept?”

“Before I retired, I worked out of the Jefferson City post. We were the jurisdiction for crimes that took place at Southeast Tennessee State, but evidence for cases more than ten years old is transferred to off-site storage in Nashville. What did you learn from Nellie Franz?”

“She told me Covington’s room had a lot of cash lying around, more than college kids should’ve had. Henry had the room next door to Ryan and Tom Ferris, so maybe there’s a connection. She’s uneasy about the law, but I think she’ll testify to seeing the money in the room if it comes to trial.”

“So what’s next?”

“I’m going to talk with Trula Godfrey, and then I’m going to try to get ahold of Ryan Gentry’s computer.”

“Keep me apprised. I have a doctor’s appointment. Need to get going but thanks for the call.”

Ben located the suburban neighborhood where Mrs. Godfrey lived. Her suburb consisted of small ranch houses
, most about thirty years old and crowded with overgrown shrubbery. Trula Godfrey’s house was built of yellowish brick. Her driveway had been paved, but weeds grew through the asphalt. Ben parked and walked up to the door.

A woman around sixty came to the screen door
, chubby with white hair and glasses. It was already hot, and there was no sound of an air conditioner. She was wearing a house coat, faded from a hundred washings.

“Hello
,” she said, smiling up at him. It was obvious she was delighted to have company, any company.

“I’m Sheriff Ben Bradley of Rose County. Are you Trula Godfrey?”

“I am. Please come in, Sheriff,” she said, opening the screen door wider. “Have a seat. I’ll get us something to drink.”

Ben heard her fussing around in the kitchen. The living room had way too much furniture. His knees were mashed against her dark coffee table.

“Now what can I help you with, Sheriff?” Mrs. Godfrey asked, handing him his lemonade. “Does that need more sugar?”

“No, thank you. I’m here because we’re looking into the Ryan Gentry case again.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Godfrey’s face grew pink and she put a hand on her cheek.

“I wonder what you remember from that day.”

“I wish I
didn’t
remember,” she said softly. “It was awful. Ryan Gentry was a nice boy, very responsible. He was the treasurer for Sigma Chi.”

“Were you surprised he killed himself?”

“Very. But he did come to see me once to complain about the fraternity hazing. He said it had gotten out of hand. The leader of the hazing was a kid named Henry Covington. He’d broken a pledge’s hand.”

“What else do you remember about Covington?”

“After Ryan’s report, I looked into his background. He’d been raised by a single mother and was there on a football scholarship. His father was not in the picture. I was a little bit afraid of him, to tell you the truth, but I called him into my office. I tried to scare him by saying the pledge with the broken hand might sue, but Henry wasn’t fazed. His roommate was Greg Townsend, who was pre-law, and he said Greg and his family would protect him.”

“Do you think Henry might have been involved in Ryan’s death in any way?”

“I hope not,” she said. There was a note of sadness in her voice. “After the pledge incident I called the coach of the football team. I told him Henry needed a father figure and urged him to take the boy under his wing. Henry wasn’t really college material. Greg had to help him a lot with his classes and the football players had tutors or he wouldn’t have made it. After Ryan died, I finished out the year and then retired. My husband was sick, and I needed to take care of him. May I get you some more lemonade, Sheriff?” she asked.

“No thank you
, Mrs. Godfrey. You’ve been very helpful. And your lemonade just hit the spot. I need to get going now, but I appreciate your seeing me.”

Once back in the car, Ben had plenty of driving time to think about the motive for both killings. As a football player, Covington could have been shaving the point spread on games. That would have explained all the money in their rooms. Ryan Gentry was the treasurer for the fraternity and might have seen some big money being laundered through the account. If Ryan had gone to either Henry or Greg asking questions about the money, he’d signed his own death warrant.

When Tom Ferris returned to college the day Ryan died, Covington or Townsend must have been apprehensive that he knew something and told him to leave town. Ben didn’t know why Tom Ferris returned to Rosedale so many years later, but he was obviously spotted when he went to meet with his attorney. If Covington or Townsend saw him, they must have assumed Ferris could still finger them for the Ryan Gentry killing and decided to shut
him up forever. Ben needed to get Gentry’s case reopened, or at least get Ryan’s computer. Because, as of now, he had zero evidence to support his theory.

T
he Nashville police precinct where Captain Paula worked was located in a light-orange brick building. A stone planter that ran all along the front was filled with fading yellow day lilies. Ben walked through the large glass door and checked the list of office numbers, noting that Captain Paula was in Room 8-A. He went to the front desk, where a weary sergeant looked down at him from a raised seat.

“I’m Ben Bradley, Sheriff of Rosedale County. I’d like to speak to Captain Paula Crawley. Is she in?”

The sergeant didn’t respond, just pushed a button on the phone.

“Cap’n, there’s a Sheriff Bradley here, wants to speak to you,” Turning back to Ben he
said, “She’ll be out in about fifteen.”

Sheriff Bradley sat in one of the oak chairs along the wall
with three other men. He pulled a small pad of paper from his breast pocket and jotted down several points he wanted to make to Captain Paula. He decided not to discuss his suspicions about Townsend, since he was an attorney, but just focus on Covington.

When Captain Paula appeared, he was surprised. Ben had expected a fifty-something battle axe. The woman walking toward him was young,
probably not even forty. She was less than five and a half feet tall and had dark gray eyes. She seemed preoccupied. Although her hair was cut close to her head, it suited her—complementing her heart-shaped face and emphasizing her eyes.

“Hello,”
he said, standing up and holding out his hand. “I’m Ben Bradley.”

“Hello
.” Her small hand grasped his firmly. “Follow me.”

She led him to her office. “Have a seat. I don’t have long, but I appreciate your
taking the trouble to give me a report in person. How’s the investigation coming along?”

“We have a theory
that links Tom Ferris’ murder to Ryan Gentry’s death at Southeast Tennessee State fifteen years ago. Are you familiar with that case?”

She nodded, holding his eyes with hers, hardly blinking.

“I believe Henry Covington was involved in fixing the spread on college football games as a student. It’s likely that he needed somewhere to put the money he received from the gambling. He could have used the fraternity account. Ryan Gentry was the Treasurer for the Sigma Chi house. If he saw a large deposit and questioned Henry about it, it would have been a motive for what I think was murder, not suicide.”

“Okay,” she said.

“We like Covington for the Gentry murder and for the Ferris killing. He was in the frat house when Ryan was killed. He now lives and works for a legal firm in Rosedale. Tom Ferris went to see his attorney, Evangeline Bontemps, the day he was killed. She thought he’d seen something or someone on his way into her office—said he looked resigned, as if something he had feared for a long time was about to happen. I think Covington saw Ferris and decided to get rid of him, believing Ferris could link him to the Gentry death.”

“Okay, hold it right there
.” She held up her hand. “I admit the theory of the crime is ingenious. However, you’re pretty light on evidence to support this theory.

“I’m aware of that. I’m here because I’d like to see what was kept from the Gentry case. If I can find some supporting evidence, I can use it to get a warrant to search Covington’s apartment. ”

“Getting a search warrant is your problem, not mine.” Her voice was calm but unsympathetic. Her eyes never wavered.

“It is
.” The sheriff stayed composed. “However, if you’d be willing to reopen the Gentry case, I think the judge in Rosedale would grant a search warrant for Covington’s place. I’ve talked to Detective Pascoe and he told me Gentry’s computer should still be in the evidence locker in cold case storage here. Forensic computer work has progressed enormously in the last fifteen years. A forensic analysis could determine if there were any large deposits recorded in the fraternity account and if they were made in cash.”

He thought he had made his case well, but there was no way to know how Captain Paula was reacting. The woman
’s expression was completely deadpan.

“So, that old coot Pascoe is still chewing on the Gentry case, is he?” She shook her head.

Ben nodded.

“Most of the officers here think he’s a nutcase,” she
said, as steely eyed as ever. “Frankly, I don’t. Five years ago when I started working here, I reviewed all the cold cases from the last twenty years. Pascoe made sure I included the Gentry case in my review. He always thought Gentry’s suicide was dubious. No suicide note, no pattern of depression, and according to everyone quoted in the case file, Ryan was a well-adjusted young man.”

“Do you think we have enough to reopen?” the sheriff asked.

“No, and neither do you or you wouldn’t have come all this way to make your pitch in person,” she said with a faint smile. “I won’t reopen the case, but I’ll give you the computer. We often share old case information among detectives. I can justify this on the basis that you’re looking into a closed case which might have been mishandled. Another set of eyes is often helpful. I’ll get somebody to take you over to off-site storage.”

Captain Paula led Ben through the halls and down into the basement. The officer sitting behind a metal screen looked up when they walked in.

“Captain,” he said, nodding respectfully.

“Jim, I need somebody to take Sheriff Bradley to off-site storage. He wants to take a look at case number 169325D.” Ben was not particularly surprised she knew the case number by heart; she was that kind of woman.

“Right,” the officer said laconically. I’ve got Deputy Gomez working in the back.” He buzzed Gomez with his intercom and a good-looking young Hispanic woman appeared. She had honey-colored skin, dark melting eyes and a uniform that did nothing to disguise her abundant curves.

“Deputy, this is Sheriff Bradley. I’d like you to take him over to off-site and get him the computer from the old Ryan Gentry case.”

“Yes, sir,” Gomez said. Clearly Captain Paula preferred being called ‘sir,’ even by her own staff.

Sheriff Bradley thanked Captain Paula and followed the deputy out to a state police vehicle. An hour later, Ben had Ryan’s computer in a box
, along with one other item he thought might be helpful in making his case—Ryan Gentry’s belt.

On the way back to Rosedale, Ben called the office. Deputy Phelps answered the phone.

“George, why are you still on the phones? Where’s Dory?”

“She’s in the interrogation room with Detective Nichols. They’re talking to Henry Covington.”

“Damn it! I told them to wait to talk to him until after we got that search warrant.” White hot anger flashed in Ben’s chest. “Get Wayne and Dory out of there and into my office now
. I want to talk to both of them. Put them on speaker.”

A couple minutes later, he heard Wayne and Dory’s voices.

“Hey,” Detective Nichols said.

“What the hell were you two thinking?” Ben felt a rush of adrenaline race through his body. His nostrils flared and he hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “You’ve just tipped off our prime suspect. Couldn’t you have waited one damn day for me to get the search warrant?”

“Hang on,” Nichols said and Ben heard his detective say something to Dory. Then her voice came on the line.

“We already got the warrant,
boss. Fuller’s at Covington’s place now, looking for the murder weapon.”

Ben sighed, partly in relief and partly in exasperation. “Why the hell didn’t you call me? What evidence did you use to convince the
judge? Seeing as there wasn’t
any
, it must have been a tough sell.”

“I told her we had an eye witness
who could identify him.” Dory’s voice sounded unsure, apologetic.

“Oh you did, did you? I take it you were talking about Mrs. Laurel Anderson. If Fuller doesn’t find something incriminating in Covington’s apartment, the defense attorney is going to make mincemeat out of poor little Mrs. Anderson
. I can hear it now. ‘The only witness the prosecution could produce was an eighty-three-year-old lady who is short-sighted and saw
someone
leaving the Booth Showhouse by the side door at dusk.’ If this guy, who’s already killed twice, gets off again, it’s going to be you who tosses and turns at night, Dory Clarkson.”

“I’m truly sorry, sir
.” Dory sounded chastened.

“I trust you at least remembered we can’t keep him more than forty-eight hours without arresting him? What time did you bring him in? Has he asked for his attorney?”

“Wayne and Deputy Fuller picked him up after lunch. I clocked him in at one thirty-four p.m. We’re going to put him in a line-up tomorrow morning. We got lucky on the attorney issue; his lawyer’s out of town.”

“You best kneel down and pray Mrs. Anderson identifies him. Who else were you going to have in the line-up?”

“Lester and Dean are in the drunk tank; they’re both about Henry’s size.”

“Keep your fingers crossed that Deputy Fuller finds the gun. Even if Mrs. Anderson is certain about identification
—which I think is a long shot—without the weapon we have nothing.”

“Yes sir,” Dory said
.

Ben hung up, still raging.